


Caged Freedom

by TheScarlettShadows



Series: Caged Freedom [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarlettShadows/pseuds/TheScarlettShadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clintasha Soulmate Au<br/>Everyone can only see a part of the colour spectrum. But when you touch another human, skin on skin, you can see the colours they can see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colour

Red.  
Her life was dominated by it. The first thing that she had seen. The feel of her hair. The smell of their death. The taste of anger. The sound of a blade as it slid into skin. After so much time drowning in it, her emotions, her life had been drained. Every time she lay down, it created a halo around her head, a mockery of her victims. Her hands were stained, her cheeks were flushed. The one constant in her life, and it made her sick.

The people, the monsters who thought they could control her, seemed to take a perverse pleasure in her discomfort, though they didn't (couldn't) know. Though she made sure she never told, never showed. They called themselves 'The Red Room', and they held to their name. Though the walls of her room were white, every other in the halls as she walked past had at some point been touched with taint. Some, she had placed. Some, she had given.

Though the red scared, stifled, sapped her in equal measures, they grey was worse. She could only see the red. The colour of fire and blood. There were blues and greens, but she only knew them as concepts. As a freedom she didn't have. She could only see a washed-out grey. Dirty snow and growing rainclouds. Black that had been bleached too many times. She would rather stay here, where she could see and comprehend.

\---

She was trapped in a cage  
Of burning twisted metal.  
Skin blistered, puffy,  
Open wounds torn open,  
Like ribbon of a page.

\---

Blue meant freedom. Green meant life. His name on scared lips warned of death. His orders were a prison of lies. He could only see the things could never have. But the blood that he caused, that dripped from small wounds, instantaneous death, was grey. He could pretend it was something (anything) else. He rarely touched it, could hardly see it. But still his hands felt drenched. Covered in heavy grey. So he could (try to) ignore it, ignore the way that his skin held no colour. He had no colour. He was nothing but a featureless shell, a robot waiting for orders.

He had always ran towards colour, towards the first thing that caught his eye. So he ran towards the circus, confused and lost with a brother that wasn't a father. But the silk of viridian and tightrope of navy wrapped around him, leaving him helpless as his only support (the one thing that he thought he could rely on) left without a backwards glance. So he took a bow of purple, shades of blue and red (grey) to remind him that he wasn't (couldn't be) free.

He would lie on a building, his back to the sky, waiting for his mark. Focused on the sea of black and white. It would ve his single wish to fly away, leave, but his wings were torn, broken, chained in place. A heavy weight pinned him in place, forcing him to lie still on the burning concrete. The blue beckoned, but his hands were grey.

\---

He was trapped in a cage  
Of plain clear glass.  
The sky and stars spun around,  
A jeer and a taunt,  
As his bones were fastened to the floor.

\---


	2. Target

Like everyday before it, the day was grey. Despite the lack of clouds covering the sun, there was no brilliance, no life to anything that she could see. Natalia walked down the street, ignoring sparks of orange in the river of silver. She had her eyes fixed on a target, a man who slipped in and out of sight, no feature to distinguish him from the monochromatic guards that surrounded him. She pushed her way past them, a simpering smile on her red red lips, looking like she was no threat and only here to flatter. She got in close and pressed herself near, cold steel burning where it was concealed in her hand. Natalia rested her forehead on his shoulder, as though weak and helpless, then slid the blade though his shirt, under his ribs, into his chest. He died quietly, not having enough time to let blood bubble to his lips, and she walked away, merging with the crowd of senseless panic.

Down an alley she went, and wiped the blade on a sheet of white cloth hanging from a line, she watched as she tried to rid herself of the red. She wanted to stay rooted to the spot, wanted to scrub her skin though they looked spotless, but she knew that her trainer wouldn't allow it. Slowly, she pulled away, leaving the splash of colour, of sin, on a stained sheet behind. She walked down the alley, and readied herself to call her liaison, when a shadows darted across the sun, and she stilled. The blade was heavy in her hand, the warmth of the man still cradled in her hand. She looked up, but there was nothing there, nothing to show that she had been disturbed. Maybe it had been a bird (there was a rumour of a hawk in the area), but her muscles sang from adrenaline, a pleasure she wanted to burn out. She wanted to kill and she wanted to live.

\---

His shirt was damp with sweat as he rested on a roof in China. Clint was far enough from Hong Kong that there weren't any high rise buildings surrounding him, but there were still enough people in he streets for him to get confused. The only noticeable feature about his target was her red hair, but that was a part of the spectrum he couldn't see. Therefore, he was a cripple even further, and had to rely on a pair of binoculars to help him see. His employers had debated on whether to send him, if the addition of his bad hearing and inability to identify his target would lead to a failed mission. But his track record had decided the argument. They needed the best to fight the best. Unfortunately, that meant he was taken out of his cage, tasting freedom, but still kept on a tightly wound leash.

The binoculars beeped, and Clint hastily picked them up from where he had left them looking over the street, and scanned the crowd. The binoculars had matched an image to a face, and pointed out a head of grey hair. He followed his target's progress as she made her way to the side of Count Something Stupid. She managed the kill flawlessly, and had nearly made her way out when the confusion started. Then he almost lost her, but she was walking straight towards him. She passed underneath his hiding place without seeing him, and he watched as she cleaned her knife, nearly ripping the cloth. He made the mistake of leaning too far forwards and blocked the sun, casting a shadow on her. He flitted back and breathed slowly, hoping that she would think it a bird. He counted to twenty, and then to ten, before risking a glance back down, his pistol ready in his hands. They had forbidden his bow and left him with a sniper rifle which was no use in such close quarters. 

To his surprise, she was scaling the wall below him, the knife secured in her bun, and was throwing him back before he could blink. Her hands were wrapped around his throat and the world burst into colours as he struggled to breathe. Her head was red and vivid, and his struggled slackened in shock. She rocked back onto her heels and stared at her hands, looking between them and him repeatedly. Gradually, her hair turned grey and her skin lost its glow. His wish for freedom dissipated if it meant he could have those colours back.

Clint gave himself a moment to recover, but she had burst into action before him. They fought furiously, but every time they touched, the world seemed to explode. So he tried his hardest to stay back, leashing out with his feet, sweeping and kicking. But she matched him blow for blow, and her blocking almost seemed lazy. When he bent down in an attempt to trip her, she jumped and twisted in the air, kicking his chest so he fell back and landed hard. He rolled up and over his spine, kicking up so he was standing again, but waited, breathing hard as he felt a bruise blossom beneath his shirt. It had been a long while since he had been beaten -however temporarily- and now it was twice in as many minutes. He leaped forwards, but she jumped in the air, and he realised that aiming low was not going to help him. She twisted, so she could drive a knee into his back, and he collapses face down on the floor. However, he couldn't roll into a standing position, as she was straddling his back, his arms twisted up into a painful position. A pale hand dropped a knife next to his head, and the weight on his back dissapeared. He jumped up, but only got to see a flash of a tight smile before his target ran away.


	3. Regret

Natalia ran away, her heart pounding her chest. She felt it throbbing in throat, pounding in her clenched fists. They never left a witness behind, but Natasha had gone against one of the key rules of The Red Room. But she had been so shocked at the sight of the sky, of the world, of life. The world had burst into colour and she didn't know what to do about it. 

She had touched other humans before, it was inevitable in her line of work, but they had never completed her so perfectly. There was always some part of the spectrum missing, giving a grey overtone to everything she saw. Natalia wanted all or nothing. To know that something was missing frustrated her. 

There were surgeries, people had invented wys to give a human the sight of all the colours, but the Red Room would never waste such extravagance on her. So, she had been trained to ignored it. She had been constantly exposed, been placed in situation where the colour might surprise you. One of the many reasons her hand in hand combat was excellent was her resistance, to block it off. 

But blue had always been her weakness. Green and yellow were light enough to forget. Purple was as dark and was dismissed. But the blue of the sky always made her stutter, despite her vigorous training. And the blue of her would be killer was almost too much to bear.

\---

Clint returned from his mission with his head hung, having delayed for two weeks. He wouldn't mention the failed fight, the knowledge that he was slipping was his alone to bear, he would say that the binoculars didn't work, so he couldn't find her. He would get a bollocking, maybe a beating. Then he would be sent on a few boring missions until his skills were needed. Standard procedure.

However, as he turned the corner to the coffee shop that acted as his handler's cover- a pale building with broken awning, a sign flashing 'Jazz Java' - he stopped. What had once been a coffee shop was now timber spread over the street, with people fighting in the debris. While he watched, a large black van drove into the fray, people dressed in black firing at anyone who was attacking them. 

Then Clint noticed a small patch of white on the breast pocket, and focused. It was a small eagle, its wings flared. SHIELD. Why were they here? He knew that his handlers had been trading in questionable goods, but surely it would be the Feds. According to the rumours, SHIELD was only mentioned in the more conspiracy theory areas of crime. 

His boss came out onto the street, machine gun sprayed, before a sniper took out his heart. Small pools kd grey collected under his fallen body, and Clint realised he was free. He turned smartly on his heel and shifted his bag to run, but he turned to face a double barrelled shotgun and a single eye. His enemy was tall, looked like an ex-Marine, and had dark skin tinged with grey. 

Clint raised his hands in surrender, and turned around when the shotgun motioned. From one master to another, but maybe this cage would be slightly bigger.   
"Listen kid, this is a big scary gun, and you have a very vunerable head. You also have three sniper rifles pointed at your chest. What you are going to do is step inside that large van I saw you admiring, and we are going to take you to HQ. I don't know what you are doing here, but you don't look like a bystander or innocent, so I'm going to take you in."

Reluctantly, Clint stepped into the van, into the gazes and gun sights of the four people inside it. He sighed and let himself be cuffed, blindfolded, and driven away.

\---

A one woman war against a deadly secret organisation was tiring. Especially when the only feasible way to win was to kill. Natalia was tired of killing. And it was a good thing it was nearly over. It was only her own life which remained. 

She fell to knees and breathed heavily, small white clouds escaping into the warehouse as she panted. The cold air stung her face as her hands burnt under the sticky warmth of her ex-handler. She was exhausted. Only the Red Room had managed to do that. Natalia huffed a pathetic excuse for a laugh, then winced as the movement pulled on her wounds. 

The Red Room had finally been dismantled, by a member of one of their own training programs. 

Behind her, she heard the faint whisper of an arrow being notched, and drawn up to shoot. Natalia stiffened, then dropped forwards, rolling out of the way of an arrow that wasn't shot. She sweeped her assailant's feet from under him, but he had jumped, and was now pointed the arrow squarely at her heart.


	4. Chances

Wrong. This was wrong. It couldn't be this easy to get so close to the famous Black Widow. To knock an arrow and have her at his mercy. To have her so vulnerable. Maybe this was a play, a con, a way to make him let down his guard, but she should never have exhaustion in her eyes. If she was going to play this, she would be tired, suffering, defeated, but not as though she were dead already. This wasn't the Black Widow. This was an empty shell of a woman.

The attempt of escape was pitiful, reflexes slowed, dulled, even the average human could see them coming. What had happened to her training, her skill, her grace? Clint remembered the fight on the rooftop, how she could scale a wall in two seconds, could fight him and win in three. He felt sick as she crouched there, looking up at him like a beaten dog. She had once been a fire, bright even though she looked grey. He had searched for a red-seer, but they had all fallen flat, missing the hues she possessed. It looked doubtful that she had them now.

She tried to look steady, tried to look like a painting of defiance, but he could only see defeat. The grey in skin never looked as prominent as it did now, stretched tight over her face, fading at the edges like an old film photograph. He couldn't kill her. He couldn't kill another who didn't want to fight. He wanted to see red again. He wanted to get rid of the expression of exhaustion on her face. He wanted the thrill of fighting a worthy opponent again. 

He wanted to learn her name. He wanted her to live.

He knew that dreams were for children. People like him, they couldn't afford dreams. It would get them killed. It would get them a beating. And they would never come true. But maybe, if he offered her a second chance, maybe she would take it. Maybe he wouldn't have to kill her. If he had been allowed to step on the path to redemption, she could as well.

So released the string on his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Then he held out his right out.  
"Join SHIELD."

\---

Natalia slipped. She showed her surprise, a micro-expression, but an expression nonetheless. Why woul- what purpo- wh. Her mind drew to a blank. She had been trained to be prepared for everything, but she was exhausted, her life mission fulfilled, and this came straight out of не гребаный нигде!

But as she was crouched there, red blood running down her face, she gave the idea half a thought. Then a full one. Then a second. Боже мой. The archer wasn't going to kill her, so she gave herself a moment to breathe. It wasn't a bad choice. Her life no longer had any direction, no purpose. She could continue hiring her skills out, but money held no appeal and she knew that she would continue sliding down the slope of red unless she stopped soon. But if she sided with her once-enemy, she would truly begin cutting ties with her heritage. She could maybe start to work the red out of her ledger.

Smoothly, Natalia rose to her feet, ignoring the way that the bow was swiftly redrawn and pointed back at her. She noticed the flicker of regret slid across her face, before being replaced with cool impassiveness. She wiped her hands on her top, pretending that she hadn't made the mess worse, and said,  
"The people who give you your orders would never permit it."

But if they did, if they did, Natasha would have a purpose again. Her life was currently meaningless, but if she could work for people who murdered people who were threats, and not simply people who the superiors had a grudge against, it would be a solution. 

Part if her knew that she was simply trading one organisation who would send her to kill for another, but killing was all she knew. She might as well kill the bad guys, though she had thought that, once upon a time. Maybe this would all be pointless. Maybe the red would never leave her. She might as well try.

"If they say yes, then I-" Natasha hesitated, knowing that this would change the course of her life, and it may be the only way for her to keep it. "Then I say yes." 

The archer shook her hand then, and she felt the brush of his fingers against her, and saw the burst of blue above her head, and knew that she had made the right choice.


	5. Redemption

Natalia was sat in a large glass meeting room with no handcuffs or polygraphs in sight. SHIELD had tried to handcuff her and lead her into an interrogation room, but she had walked through the front door by herself. They had decided to not use handcuffs, as it was ineffective, and decided to attach her to a polygraph. Apparently it was the best one in the Western World. It may have been, it may have even been the best in the world, but she was better. She had failed the control questions, her baseline staying steady while lies rolled off her tongue. They couldn't, and wouldn't get a read on her.

The agents who were questioning her, McSweety and McStupid, looked ready to fall on their knees and beg for her co-operation, so Natalia took pity on them. It would't do for SHIELD to decide she was a threat and ignore her surrender. Even if antagonising them was fun.  
"I will only answer questions asked by the Archer or Director."  
McSweety almost burst into tears, as they rushed out the interrogation room to their superiors. In the meantime, she picked her way out and walked down the corridor, her baby-sitters outside the door following hesitantly. She made her way to this spacious room, and waited.

She didn't have to wait for long, and the Archer bounced through the door, flanked by two men. One was large and imposing, a leather trench-coat flaring around his ankles. His eye-patch fut an imposing figure, and Natalia immediately put him on one of her 'Most Dangerous' lists, because he wouldn't give up, and he would refuse to die. He would probably 'flip the bird', as the Americans said, to Death herself.

The other man was smaller, dressed in a typical black suit, appearing nondescript. Yet, if you actually looked at him, which seemed very hard to do, you could see that he carried a presence. He was a man not used to being ignored. While he looked sensible enough to be the Director, Natalia felt that this was an elaborate test. The two men exchanged glances, and she knew that this was a test. Judging by the silent joke, she knew that they were close ,and it would be very hard to pick between the two. 

She also knew that one of them was the leader of this organisation. Which also made her contemplate what sort of agents it had, that it would let their leaders, and she had no doubt that they were both crucial in the smooth running of SHIELD, wander freely into a room with a well-known assassin. Already, she could think of twenty-three ways of killing them under fifteen seconds, without having to resort to breaking furniture for weapons. Add another twelve ways, judging by the concealed and visible weapons on their persons. While it was definite that they could each hold their own in a fight, they must know it would be no use against her. So why had they trsuted her to this extent.

A look at the corner, where the Archer stood hidden, silent, but hands fisted as though in anxiety gave her her answer. They didn't trust her, they trusted him. And he had saw the desperation, the brokenness in her. 

Natalia stood and held out a hand to Eye-patch, confident in her hunch, he was the Director. There had been just enough tightness to the other for her to know that he was close, but he wasn't it. Not yet.  
"A pleasure to meet you Director. Natal-" No. This was a new life. That demanded a new name. And what better name than the one alias which she had made herself, named after her grandmother, and the girl that she had saved, and the hope of a future.   
"Natasha."

Eye-patch smiled, and she knew that she had made the right choice. Warm and dry fingers closed around hers, and the darker shades in the room gained colour. It was subtle, a huge range, but a small selection of tone. This was a man fit to rule the darker sides of the underworld.

But if the Director and Archer were here, then  
"Who are you?"  
Poker-face stepped forward and held out his hand. Diplomatic, responsible, reliable. He was used to cleaning up messes, and took pride in his control of situations.  
"Clint's handler. I will be yours once we determine that you're not going to kill us all."  
Natasha eyed him, letting the smallest of smirks pass through her mask. He would be fun to work with, and definitely play cards with. She took his hand, and shook it. Even though he hadn't been on the list, even though this was an obvious show of disrespect to her wishes, she supposed they deserved it, and he would be an integral role here. 

When she took his hand, light yellow bled into her vision, creams and browns colouring the walls. Demure, sensible colours that were everywhere. He would certainly do.

Finally, she looked to the corner, where the archer stood, and he made his way over to her, cocky smile plastered on his face to conceal the relief. He had been worried about the way that this meeting would turn out. By his response, it had been good.   
"Clint Barton, Hawkeye."  
A handshake turned into a hug, and they stood there for a while, letting the sky turn blue and she finally felt free.


End file.
